


The Ashlander and his Enslaved Scholar

by BosmerBringingSexyBack (Chocoholic777)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Family Drama, Female Friendship, Fingering, Forbidden Affection, Gen, Gradual affection, Hair Pulling, Humiliation, Jealousy, Lima Syndrome, Magic, Master/Slave, Oral, Punishment, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spanking, use of poison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocoholic777/pseuds/BosmerBringingSexyBack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashlander sees Scholar.  Ashlander tracks Scholar.  Ashlander captures and enslaves Scholar.  The only unorthodox step was Ashlander inevitably falling for his enslaved Scholar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning for Master and Slave

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - I do not own the rights to the Elder Scrolls franchise, especially the Ashlanders and Dragonborn DLC.  
> I have also not made any profit off of this piece.  
> The characters and story, however, belong to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance sighting of a fascinating, Manmer Scholar has encouraged Zairan the Ashlander to stalk and study her.

Not all guides are completely accurate; they do not tell you exactly everything about certain places. The Guide book on Solstheim, for example, can only tell you so much about the island that once was a part of Skyrim, which is now owned by the ashen land of Morrowind.

It does not inform you about the cove of werewolves and their rivalry with the werebears. 

It does not inform you about the abominations of hostile Ash Spawn with the intent of killing anyone they come upon; which the Dunmer populace of Raven Rock have to constantly deal with. 

Above all else, it does not inform you about the hidden band of Ashlanders on the Isle. The savage Dunmer tribe live in the cradle of a deep but hidden valley located in the south-west. The valley's lip overlooks a crumbling, ancient Nordic Barrow. They are infamous for their xenophobia, which even shames the Altmer's own extreme prejudices of other Elven, Human and Beast races of Tamerial. Also, their hobby of enslaving Outlanders they come across and deemed as suitable servants.

Despite his tribe's detest of filthy Outlanders, the young huntsman of Zairan could not help but become utterly fascinated by one. 

He had been hunting some minor game and gathering alchemy ingredients for the Wisewoman, dealing with a few of those annoying Rieklings and cursed Ash Spawn. After cutting down the last Ash Spawn, the Dunmer's eye caught the flutter of something purple. 

He happened to turn at the right moment, between the burnt trees, to see a short figure scour around the front of an ancient Nordic ruin. The huntsman could not accurately identify the exotic violet-and-lilac wearing humanoid, so he decided on impulse to investigate the curious being.

After slinking past ashen vegetation, crouching behind scorched stumps and fallen boulders of stone, Zairan had found a robe-wearing individual; one of those pompous and useless scholars, perhaps. He can tell that the being was female based on her slight curves and small shoulders. The female's race was hard to determine. Zairan observed her a while longer. 

Patience is one of the vital skills for a successful hunter. And he was rewarded - the female was human. A dainty creature with pink flushed skin caused by the sweltering heat. Although most of her head was covered by a hood and red scarf, he saw her naked green eyes and pale forehead, her dusty glass goggles dangled from her satchel's strap. 

Since then, Zairan had been shadowing the human. 

He had never seen a female Manmer before. The only humans the Ashlander had ever seen since coming to this sovereign Isle were mostly those tall n'wahs of Nords. Like most of his kind, he loathes the yellow-haired, fat horker-like humans. His tribe did not bother with them, especially on terms of capturing and owning them as slaves; they were the worst to tame and follow their masters' commands with their conflicting stubbornness.

Zairan had the chance of seeing more of the Manmer's features after travelling to the east coast, two miles away from the Dwemer ruin of Kagumaz, where she sets up camp in a well-sheltered cove. 

The Ashlander had taken to climbing up a near-by slope, basing his own miniature camp between two slightly burnt trees for cover. He observed the young woman cooking then eating a decent meal of roasted Ash Hopper meat accompanied with an exotic, foreign vegetable side-dish of toasted carrots. 

She studied what appears to be her travelling journal and some research books, chewing on a segment of an apple in contemplation. At long last, she sets up destructive magic runes placed a few feet from the gaping maw of the cove, before she nestles into her dusty bedroll, assured of her clever system of security.

The Dunmer hid his own travelling supplies beneath a blanket of ash before he silently treads down the slope, slinking past Scarth Grass and dusty boulders to avoid the shock and ice constructed runes; if he hadn't watched her placing the magic-generated traps the Ashlander would have either been stabbed with icy knives or stunned terribly by electric currants.

After hoping from one slap of stone to a small, wobbly boulder, the huntsman barely skirts the blue-illuminated edge of a ice rune. However, his chitin-clad feet plant themselves in safe ochre ash. At last, the Ashlander has reached the near-impenetrable campsite.

Zairan sneaks towards the sound-asleep human, lightly snoring away without pause. The huntsman inspects her research books and her journal. Zairan only knows some of the Common tongue, an education equivalent to a semi-literate. From what he could gather the Manmer is indeed a scholar interested in the lost Nordic ruins dotted around Solstheim, for her "dissertation"... 

What in Oblivion is that? By the Three, Outlanders are strange.

Zairan replaced her leather-bound journal atop her bulging travel bag he ruffled through, finding it filled with various loose notes, trinkets and other dreary items. He sat by the small fire, hovering his cold hands over the flickering orange flames, indulging himself with the generous heat. The Dunmer rubbed his blue-grey, ash smudged hands after being sated with the heat, turned to face the short back of the Manmer. 

The Ashlander crept over, sitting on his padded knees to study the female. 

Her fair visage was illuminated by the warming light casted by the flames. He studied the straight bridge of her thin, blotchy nose, possibly irritated by the ash clogging up her nostrils. With cautious care, Netch leather-clad fingers brushed her hair behind her shoulder, revealing more of her fascinating Manmeri features. Her jawline was slender and elongated as that of a Mer, accompanied with a dimpled, short chin of a human. Her white skin was similar in tone to the fresh snow up north of the Isle, with beige freckles dotting the skin of her round cheeks. Her face in general appeared to be very young; with how open, round and soft her features were, he would've almost believed that she were a child who grew up too quickly. 

Zairan wasn't knowledgeable about the ageing in humans. Nonetheless, he knew that the female was undoubtably a young adult.

The Ashlander remained where he sat, watching the unaware woman sleeping away. He was curious over what she would be dreaming of; obviously something peaceful. It was captivating to watch the movements of her eyes, flickering beneath the delicate-petal-like hoods of her eyelids framed with thick lashes. 

Zairan stayed there, observing the attractive Manmer, until the eastern edge of the night sky faded from indigo to a light pastel blue with the clouds of ash highlighted in pink and orange. Dawn is coming. 

The hunter calmly crept away from his prey's resting place, retracing his steps to avoid the magicka generated traps, retrieving his traveling equipment then he stalked down the road heading north-east. He mesmerised the traveling schedule of his Manmer's journal, heading towards the snow shrouded land; next stop was the ancient tomb of Vohlak. 

~*~*~

Three nights have passed since Zairan tracked the Manmer. The latest two were spent within the cleared Nordic tomb, burrowed deep in the frozen earth.

He observed the young woman investigating the ancient foundations, from the safety of the shadows, as she jotted down notes on each of the unique puzzle chambers that lead to the Dragon Priest's resting chamber. She based her camp near the entrance, on the balcony that overlooks the great and deep fire pit, which has the trapdoor mechanism connected to the lever on the very alter. 

He pried into her journal to find that loyal and long dead Vohlak was a particular Mythic figure to his little Manmer's research. The Ashlander could just translate the befuddling pompous but eloquent notes that she will return back to Raven Rock in a few days time; unless time will be extended due to possible blizzards or ash storms once she enters the Morrowind landscape of the Isle.

His elongated ear twitches at the echo of footfalls, resonating carelessly throughout the curved walls of ancient stone. The Dunmer swiftly replaces her journal next her sleeping form, deeply inhaling the exotic, clean floral scent of her before he retreats into the shadows. 

The Ashlander takes out his flawless ebony bow, retrieving an Elven arrow as his sharp eyes were trained on the entry of the massive tomb. He briefly looked over to the unconscious Manmer, still blissfully slumbering away. His hot coal red eyes shifted back to the doorway. 

A small group of Dunmer stepped into the chamber, dressed up in makeshift fur armour and parts of Chitin armour, brandishing iron swords and axes. One of them joyfully pointing out the miniature encampment of the Outlander. Reavers.

Zairan wasted no time in notching an arrow into place. Drawing back until the bowstring was tensed to perfection, aiming it at the advancing barbarian of the foursome. Grey fingers released the string. Sharp whistling pierced the air before the grotesque but triumphant sound of the arrow sinks into the exposed temple of the target's head. He tumbles down onto the stone ground sideways, the clanging of the insect slates of his Chitin exploded throughout the massive chamber, disturbing the Manmer awake. She had enough time to absurd what was happening and took the advantage of the distraction of the three Revears by rolling away, down the steps of the alter. 

The Ashlander notched another arrow into place, swiftly coating the sharp golden tip with a potent poison to damage magik and stamina, allowing it to sail then pierce the bare blue skin of a scantily fur-clad mage. The kinsman shrilly cried out as she doubles over, clutching at her skewered thigh as she grits her teeth in pain. 

The last two threw themselves back into the entry hall, taking cover from their unknown attacker. As the mage desperately pulls at the slender shaft of the arrow, the swoosh of an ice spike flew then cuts into the pitiful fur armour, impaling the heaving chest. The Reaver gawks down in shock, the death rattle of her last breath sounded from her before she falls back lifelessly. 

The huntsman stared at the great icicle protruding from the dead Reaver's chest, the frosty fog ghosting over the cooling corpse. He was stunned initially before reeling to the side of the ice spike's source. 

Zairan spotted his Outlander, crouching behind the rusty iron railing with her raised left hand that glowed in blinding blue-white energy. Her face, still puffed up and flushed from sleep, was stone-set in determination and mild fright from the unexpected visit of those damned Revears. 

Shouts came from the remaining two outlaws, threatening the human and her possible accomplice to surrender themselves if they wish to keep their lives. What complete, utter guar-crap.

 

Although the Breton was perplexed at the notion of an accomplice, she dismissed it as she shifted into her fighting stance. A ominous ball of swirling purple and black formed in her right hand, preparing then casting the spell a few feet before her. The spell conjured a bulky creature made of solid blocks of ice, the Frost Atronach stomps it's way into the entry hall to eliminate its conjurer's foes. The sounds of the barbarians' war cries and of their weapons hacking and bashing the demon's hardened flesh of ice.

Marelle rushed to her bedroll, snatching out her staff of ice storms and scroll of paralysis. She sprinted up the ancient corridor, the frosty back of her Atronach filled out most of the doorway, just spotting one of the Reavers crouching in surrender from great injury whereas the other roared and fought with such fury it unnerved the mage. With the flick of her wrist to command her weakening ice demon to stand a side, the Breton used her staff to release a great storm of blitzing knifes of ice. The dreadful whirling blizzard swallows up the two Reavers. The sickening, wet sound of flesh being slashed and torn apart by the numerous ice daggers, taking their lives mercilessly. After the ice storm crashed and dispersed against a curved wall, it leaves behind a frosty trail of magic ice with the frozen, cut up corpses of Marelle's enemies. The Atronach crumples into a heap of ice blocks next to her, rapidly melting away from existence. 

The Breton tore herself away from the grisly scene, readying a ball of crimson energy then tossing it above her. Apart from the red aura of mice and insects, she cannot detect any life forms of another person. She scoured around the entry hall, bolting in the lock of the entrance in place. 

Brandishing her staff and summoning another Ice Atronach, she hurried into the first chamber, scanning the entire area before checking every nook and cranny. After she throughly checked the other chambers, her massive ice demon jogging behind, she returned to the first chamber, heading towards her camp to start packing. Despite not finding another person, she wasn't naive enough to sleep in the chamber; Marelle noticed the Elven arrows puncturing the first couple of Reavers. 

The Breton knew someone was there. Watching her.

She has all she needs on Vahlok anyway. She should head towards the only Nord village of the Skaal, convince and pay one of them to escort her back to Raven Rock, so she could leave this dreaded island. The Breton was unnerved enough by the Ash Spawn, rising up from the hot ashes on the ground, their horrid hot-coal eyes glowing in blind rage to kill anything threatening and harmless. She sure as the thirteen planes of Oblivion that she doesn't want a damned stalker on top of all that. 

Without warning, her Atronach dispatches into a rubble of ice once more. She didn't have enough time to react when a sharp shot of agony seized her left shoulder. The young Mage cried out in alarm, urgently grasping the fragments of a weak, wooden practice arrow. She staggers away from her belongings, her legs were becoming harder and harder to move as if transforming into leaden poles of stone. Marelle falls to her knees, cursing Lady Luck when her numbing hands fail to draw magic from the source within her stiffening body. She collapses to her side, recognising the poison from the arrow as paralysis. 

Her eyes bulged and breath quickens in fear as light footsteps approach from behind. 

Arkay preserve me, Marelle prayed internally as her paralysed form was turned, her eyes meeting burning garnet orbs set on a war painted face of a Dunmer ruffian.

 

The celadon pools of her irises further fascinated Zairan. He noticed the few specks of malachite doting the circular rim, giving them more impact as her pupils shrink into pinpoints of tiny beads of black. The huntsman takes both of her thin wrists, bringing them above her head then swiftly bounding them in Netch leather rope. He knew that the purple-blue hide suppresses the magic within her, the electricity lacing the leather ensures in discouraging the energy. He admires her show of using strategy and power back there with the Reavers; Zairan was quick-minded to hide in the south wing, clinging behind the great urns lining the corridor as his irked and frightened Outlander scurried past him. 

The Ashlander drags her by the scruff of her night tunic towards her half-packed camp, holding her in place with one arm while he unrolls and pats down the bedroll single-handedly. He unsheathes his Elven dagger, stabbing it in a crack on the stone floor, above the head of the bedroll. The Dunmer hefts the woman onto the bedroll, guiding her tied wrists over the planted blade to hold her in place, a keening sound escaping her indicated that the poison's effect is passing. Her body weakly struggles beneath him, moving upwards in an attempt in pushing the Ashlander off, only furthered his want to claim her. 

He stares down at her. His arms planted on either side of the Manmer's head to support his weight, pressing himself between her short legs kicking out on either side of him. His lean body drapes over the flailing, petite form of the Manmer's. He had taken the liberty to strip off his light chitin armour, leaving on his thin blue tunic and dusty black trousers before he taken out her summoned dremora. 

B'vek, the twisting of the Manmer's body is starting to get to him. He gripped the front of her clothes, slamming her into the ground to halt her frantic movements and yells of defiance. Her frightened eyes stare up at the fearful Dunmer, her plump lips red and trembling as tears glistened in her eyes. 

"W-wh-what do you w-want?..." She stutters, her soft, mousy voice choked by the fear gripping at her throat. Zairan pondered over his answer, fitting himself more firmly against her pelvis to press his aroused length against her thigh. 

"I want... inside you." He responds in his deep, ash-rough voice.

She gasps then cries out in renewed fear and determination on escaping. The Ashlander, to say the least, was beginning to grow weary of her screams and yells of defiance. He tears off the long sleeve of her tunic, ripping the fabric into a long strip as he looped each end twice to double knot the middle section of the ruined material. He stuffs the knotted ball into her wide, noisy mouth to muffle her, tying the two strips behind her head. Zairan's fingers linger in brushing her hair, the tousled locks of red-brown shine under the light of overhead torches. He leans forward, pressing his hooked nose to deeply inhale her addictive scent of lavender, skin and paper.

The Dunmer sits up, his hands moving down to hover over her chest. He unlaced then tears the neck of the tunic open, causing the Manmer to gasp, to have more access to her bust. After pulling down the retched band, two milky globes met the curious, lustful gaze of the hungry huntsman. Although considered small to humans, the Manmer's breasts were bigger than the female Dunmer back in his tribe; he cups one, the mound filling half of his hand. His calloused thumb brushes over the tightened nub adoring the breast, reacting to Zairan's ministrations. The Ashlander covers his hands over them, groaning lowly as he kneaded the pliant flesh, the hardened nipples teasing the skin of his palms. The Dunmer admires the contrast of his lavender skin to her milky white flesh. He silently moans as his erection pulses, demanding to be freed from its prison.

Zairan ignores it, leaning down to fasten his thin lips around a perk nipple. He suckles eagerly at the pink bud of flesh. His tongue flickers at the nipple, swirling around the areola to erect the flesh further. Despaired muffled moans rumble in the Manmer's throat, making the Ashlander smile around his mouthful, scrapping his teeth over the sensitive skin. He focuses on the next one, lavishing it in attention while his dexterous fingers keep the other breast entertained. The Dunmer blew air onto the wet skin, delighting in the way the flesh erupts in goose pimples, freely showing its anticipation to its generous provider. He lightly bites into the side of his Manmer's breast, humming against the globe to send vibrations to add to her body's reluctant desire.

His hot lips trail to the deep valley, trailing wet kisses and curious licks to taste her sweat and skin. His eyes of fresh blood stare up into the Outlander's face, her eyes clenched shut as tears of shame rolled down her flushed cheeks. His eager tongue runs itself down the firm plains of her stomach, nipping at the jittering muscle and soft belly, jumping beneath his smirking mouth. Zairan comes to face her groin, seeing a thin strip of dampness on the cotton between her legs. The Dunmer's mouth waters as he smells the musk of his human's sex. He unlaced the ties, tugging down her cotton bottoms to the top of her shivering knees. 

His large hands steady the tensing thighs, halting and spreading them to observe the secret region of her being. The huntsman's face inches forward, inhaling the strong smell of her sex calling for him to taste and claim. He could see the outline of her neither lips, pressing through the sodden rabbit felt, feeling it with the tip of his tongue. He chuckles a little from the startled jump of her pelvis. With his teeth, the eager Ashlander pulls down the ruined garment to at last see the fine treasure of feminine beauty. It was a remarkable sight to be behold. 

Puffy petals guarded the entrance, glistening from the delectable dew of her body's desire. The shade was a fresh pink, blushing prettily from the arousal ripening within his Manmer's core. There atop the blooming flower was the virtuous hood covering the fleshy pearl, peeking at the intrigued Dunmer. His Manmer's sex was glorious in its beauty, luring the young male to sample and drink the flowing nectar. Zairan breathed air onto the parting slit, sweeping his tongue across the neither lips to taste the bittersweet cream. The Ashlander only had the one taste before being thrown off guard by two, white thighs constricting his neck.

He startles back in surprise to have a white knee smashing into his face, catching his cheekbone and eye. The Dunmer yelps from shock, sputtering out blood from his dislodged tooth and gashed inner cheek flesh. He cradles the left side of his assaulted face, the skin of his cheekbone burning and his eye stinging from the brute impact. The huntsman partly recovers, turning to see his Manmer desperately sawing her Netch leather bindings on his dagger; to her lack of knowledge, it would take up to five minutes to cut through the tough leather. Foolish girl. 

His streak of anger flares up, conspiring with his lust as his mind clouds from the red mist, commanding him to take what is rightfully his. 

Zairan shouted in blood-boiling rage, stomping over to the defiant bitch still kicking out with her legs in a fury of her own. He grabs her flailing leg, smiting her with the back of his hand, stunning her. The Ashlander angrily unbuckles and loosens his bottoms, slamming down on her other leg to sit on while he throws then holds the other firmly in place on his broad shoulder. He whips out his engorged, angry looking cock. The Manmer's pitiful attempt at defying her new owner has not deterred Zairan's arousal, only making the mistake in awaking his wrath. 

Her insolence shall be repaid with punishment.

Zairan grasps himself in hand, aligning his shaft to the exposed sex, the purple-red crown nudging between the delicate pink folds. He breaths in hard, attempting to reel in his Dunmeri temper to think over the consequences of his foreseeable actions. The only thought that is constantly flashing in his mind, stealing his concentration and threatening to hurt his pride, was one fuelled by the animalistic lust and rage swirling within him like a chaotic ash storm. 

Claim her.

Intoxicated from this horrid notion, the Ashlander unceremoniously thrusts inside the Manmer's sheath. Ignoring her muffled shrieks of anguish he fucks blindly without savouring the tightness and slickness of her intimate core. Concentrating solely on the angry penetration he has set himself.

She is rightfully yours. 

Zairan grabs and wrenches out his Elven dagger. Pulling out of his Outlander, he roughly hauls her petite form onto her hands and knees, slamming himself back into her from behind to resume his harsh invasion of her cunt.

You saved her from those Revears; she does not appreciate your effort.

The enraged Dunmer takes hold of her white-bone hips, his large hands putting bruising pressure that mars the flawless skin with blossoming black-blue stains. He leans over her small body, pathetically shuddering, sinking his teeth into her bony shoulder.

She deserves to be punished.

Zairan stopped moving, his cock still buried deep in her. With one hand he slaps her rump, striking it with a downpour of vicious lashings of his calloused hand. The Manmer screams and whimpers behind the sodden cloth, sweat dripping off her sickly skin, her pitiful sobs shook her body as red welts appear on her tender buttocks. Satisfied, he continues.

She is yours.

"N'wah!" He grunts through gritted teeth, feeling the fire within building up in intensity, threatening to engulf the Dunmer's being in flames as he reaches his peak. He twists his hand in her damp hair, yanking it painfully back as he glares down at her sorrowful, tear-streaked face. *"Ohn nchow n'wah!" 

Yours to have.

With a cry, the Ashlander bucks into her a final time before the internal fire engulfs him in ecstasy, causing him to see blinding light behind closed eyelids, exploding his seed within the battered and relented body. He collapses on the Outlander in exhaustion.

Yours to control.

The thick red mist and quilt of sleep gradually dispatches from him, leaving Zairan feeling the sobering draft of air sweeping over his back and the shaved sides of his head. He acknowledges the crackling of the fire pit, the film of sweat cooling on his skin and the soft wheezing of his Manmer crushed beneath him. The fully-awake Ashlander bolts up, concern crawls up into his chest to replace the warm euphoria from before. He studies the Outlander, cold and still but breathing. The Dunmer moves away, hissing at removing his sensitive length.

It was a mistake but unpreventable for him to look down, seeing his flaccid, violet shaft painted with red. By Azura. He looks alarmed to her sex, also smeared in congealing blood. Realisation hits him harder than a kick to his stomach. 

He brutally broke his sweet, beautiful Manmer's maidenhead. The thoughtless Dunmer stole her innocence. 

Zairan rushes to remove the wretched gag, tearing at the cloth straps to allow her to breath. He lightly turns her over on her side, her face caused his heart to painfully ache. Her kind, soft and beautiful face was corrupted by the anguish and defeat poisoning her expression to be drawn. Her harsh hiccups racked her petite form, as floods of salty tears break loose from her blood-shot, dismal eyes. The bright colour of gentle green fades to an ailing, dull shade Zairan will forever be reminded of his foul deed.

He looks away in shame. Anathematising himself for hurting his little Manmer in such an unforgivable way; nothing could possibly compensate her loss of something so personally precious. The Ashlander is no worse than those cutthroat Revears.

He is scum.

~*~*~

They set off early in the morning. Rounding past the remains of the temple of Miraak. The once corrupted Tree Stone stands tall above the crumbling wicked structure, aglow in healthy green magick energy. The weather was clear, showing mercy to Solstheim. They stuck to the snowy landscape of the Isle, encountering a few wolves that fell under the callous downpour of glittering moonstone arrows, finishing the beasts off easily. 

When the great fireball of the sun hovers above the Sea of Ghosts, the Dunmer leads Marelle to a small cabin, abandoned by the looks of it. Her captor leads her towards the porch of the cabin, brushing away an inch of snow for them to sit down. What this actually meant by them sitting down was her being tugged forwards by the leash from the Dunmer's grasp to her tightly bounded hands. 

Marelle sat on the wooden porch obediently, not wishing to evoke his wrath. The Breton was freshly scarred by what happened less than twelve hours ago. She is terrified of her captor. She has experienced firsthand on what he is capable of. She has never felt that sort of agony in all of her life. Oh Stendarr's Mercy, the pain was almost indescribable. The red-hot agony scorched her insides, how the cruel flames burned her abdomen then greedily spread across her struggling person consuming her in a hell of physical and emotional pain. Marelle begged to the Nine on why this happened to her? 

Did she deserved it? If so, what had she done wrong to be rewarded with such brutality?

Was it apart of some plan by fate for her to endure such a horrific ordeal? 

Whatever the reason, Marelle certainly did not want an encore.

The poor woman was further thrown off balance by the moral complexity shown by her assaulter. After having his violent way with her, he healed her wounds then cleaned up the appalling mess between her thighs, consisting of her maiden blood and his vile semen, before he helped her traumatised self into her bedroll. 

He is fearfully unpredictable as the Daedric Prince of Madness. 

Her captor reaches up to remove his chitin helm, brushing off the worst of the snow then taking out a piece of tattered cloth to polish the monocles set within the large insect hallowed shell. Despite her newfound fear of him, the Breton could not help herself but become intrigued by his outlandish appearance. 

His Mohawk has drooped to the side, the result from being suppressed by the helm. Both sides of his head were shaved, whereas the tall strip of his orange-red mane allowed a waterfall of hair flow over the nape of his neck, shining strands of it escaped from his armour to drape over his shoulders. The pointed ear facing her has a slight tear at the taper of the blue-purple shell; the earlobe was impaled by a small tusk of sorts, creamy at the fine tip darkening downwards to the thick, dark brown base of the bone jewellery. There were aged light pink scars trailing from under his crooked nose to the sharp chin, possibly made by some small but viscous animal's claws. There was also a singular, thin braid hanging from his mohawk over the shaved side of his head, a small white feather tied at the strip of hide securing the braided threads of copper. His blue-purple skin reminded Marelle of the blooming flowers of lavender. His slanted eyes definitely resemble the crimson gemstones of garnets. The vivid, flawless colour reflected the lights of his emotions; the impact of it was hard-hitting to say the least. His war paint consisted of crimson square patterned back of a snake, creating a semi-curl around the ride side of his jawline, repeating the design that dominates the top of his left, shaved scalp. For a Dunmer, she could not deny his rugged good looks. 

Marelle did her best in not facing him directly, allowing herself to steal glances at her mysterious captor. Other than stating his want of her in broken Common and shouting at her in the unknown tongue of Dunmeri, he has not uttered a word to her since. The silence was both comforting and unsettling. 

Despite his hard-set, hatchet and difficult-to-read appearance, she noticed the solemness and gloom plaguing his long-strides and the deflated, weighed look of his shoulders. The Breton scolds herself for being foolish but is it possibly her stalker-now-captor feels guilt over raping her. After all he had helped her by fetching a health potion, cleaning her up then guided her into her bedroll putting a sizeable gap of space between them with his back turned. 

Even if he does care about her well-being, it was made crystal clear to the scholar that he was not planning on letting her go.

The Dunmer still kept her wrists bound by some sort of unfamiliar leather that shocks her every time when attempting to summon her magick. Even on their brisk, 2 mile trek from Vahlok's Tomb to this forgotten cabin he looped a thin but sturdy rope over her restraints; gods, she felt like a pet being lead by her new "owner". 

A deep grunt draws her attention to the Mer sitting next to her. His burning eyes peered under the slope of his broad brow, his thin lips pressed in a tight line of uncertainty than anger. He straightens up his sloughing posture, coughing a little for measure in preparing what he was going to say to her. 

Marelle sat alert. Waiting anxiously for him to speak.

He curls a chitin-leather hand into a fist, drawing it to his left breast plate then rapped against his chest as he inhales breath for what he has to say.

"Zairan..." The Dunmer states to the anticipating Breton. She was taken aback by surprise. He told her his name. After a few moments has past, he uncurls his fist gesturing to her to speak. 

Oh. He wants her name. 

"... Marelle..." The scholar said after great hesitation, reluctant in giving the Dunmer her name but knowing the foreseeable results if she did not do so.

"Marelle..." The Dunmer named Zairan repeated her name, tested the sound and feel of it on his tongue. The husky quality of his deep voice, choked by ash, resonated in the Breton's ears. It was as if his voice was imprinting itself to her library of memories, to lie in wait for any chance given to dominate her thoughts and dreams. The Breton suppresses the unusual shiver caused by the Mer's exotic, smoky baritone. 

He looks away in thought, planning on what to say to her next. She already sussed out that he knew little of the Common language. 

Where in Oblivion is he from? Clearly from some small community of Dunmer who strictly spoke in their own tongue. He must not be a Reaver; he would've raped her then cut her throat before he stole her belongings. The only Dunmer populace Marelle is aware of on this Isle is Raven Rock. The design of his chitin armour was different from the standard type; it has the Dunmeri swirls and spools painted blood red on the beige and ochre plates of the armour.

"You listen good." He states to her, breaking the Breton away from her collection of thoughts. "I take you home... My home... You are n'wah," He takes a firm hold of his daunting hand on her shoulder, strengthening the impact of his explanation of her dire situation; his hand seared a brand into her flesh, her layer of furs and robes useless as comprehension sinks it's teeth in. "Slave..."

It hit the Breton like an ice spear, piercing her back as the ice seeps into her flesh. Her body frozen in place as she is made vulnerable to the predator claws of fear clamping down, dragging her away into a prison filled with taunting nightmares and poisonous, backstabbing emotions with a vile intent on wearing down her strong will into nothing. 

No...

She stared at the Dunmer. Her master. Terror drains the colour from her face. Zairan, this Dunmer who stalked, raped and captured her, is an Ashlander. 

The Dunmer heaves a sigh at her dismayed expression before continuing.

"You follow and serve only me. You do as told by me. You behave well, life easy for you. If bad, punishment. Worse punishment if you run away." He finishes, grasping both of her shoulders. His fierce gaze bores deep in her eyes, waiting for her to confirm her understanding.

With a single nod of her head, she whispers a silent and defeated "yes".

Her captor nods his approval. 

With a grip on the porch's wooden handrail he rises to stand, turning he heaves the Breton up on her leather-booted, cold feet. Wrapping the rope around his hand the Dunmer leads them away from the cabin, treading towards the towering wall of solid stone. 

It was not until they approached that Marelle spots the flutter of a tall flap, the faded grey of the cloth almost blending in with the stone. The Dunmer grabs the side of it before ushering the enslaved scholar into the cave, lit decently with the flames of the torches lining the drizzling walls. 

With one last look to the frozen landscape, she commits the amazing blue skies to memory, as she inhales the crisp air of freedom. The sweet freedom that has been taken away from her. She allows a single tear to trail down her cheek to show her consuming grief.

Marelle steps into the passageway, leading her to her new life as a slave; serving under the ruthless iron fist of an Ashlander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Ohn nchow n'wah!" translates as "You damn foreigner!"  
> More to come~


	2. Stoic Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zairan takes his prize home, in the Hidden Valley, for his fellow Ashlanders to see his enslaved Manmer.  
> Meanwhile Marelle is introduced to her new purpose of serving her master, while she gets her head around this new culture that despises Outsiders yet will take any chance at owning one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might add more to this chapter yet. For now, however, I'll give you all what I have written for now.

The passage burrowed through the small mountain whistled a harrowing tune, startling the two people traveling through the dank, claustrophobic tunnel. They proceeded with their journey, their footsteps thud on the wet stone and gravel of the cave's floor. 

Marelle felt the cold sweat drip down her temple, forcing herself to keep calm despite imagining the damned stone walls closing in, threatening to crush the enslaved scholar and her captor. 

Gods, why must they pass through a cave? She thought back to the cabin where they rested for a while, hoping that it was the Dunmer's home. For the Breton, the neglected and filthy hovel was better than treading through a wet, cramped and eerie cavity despite the lit torches lining the tunnel. 

She wanted to rush through the cave, get to wherever her new master was taking her. Marelle knew she should be more afraid of arriving and spending the last of her days as a slave than just treading through an empty cave; to anyone but her, it was a ludicrous notion on fear. 

She trailed close behind Zairan, her captor, not quite touching the Ashlander but rather close. She could smell the pungent sulfur clinging to his fur cloak, her eyes catching the wet clumps of ash clogging up the crevices of his light, custom-made armour. In the glint of the fire light, the scholar watched the swaying long strands of copper reflect gold in the light of the flames. The Ashlander's hair is in fine condition, the sleek quality was adoring and envious. 

Marelle was caught off guard by the flash of light shining up ahead. It was sunlight. It was the exit! 

The Breton exhaled a deep sigh of relief, eager in getting out of this godsforsaken cave. The two approached the gapping maw, squinting in the natural light from Akatosh's Eye. Once their gazes accustomed to the bright daylight, they were greeted by the sight of planes of frosted grass, catching the afternoon sun, causing the many green blades to glitter. They were in some sort of valley, the towering stone bowl enclosing the land from the rest of the Isle, as if deliberately secluding this unknown territory from the rest of the world. 

A tug on her bounds drew her from awing the dazzling, spectacular scene, treading after the Ashlander. 

Zairan was reluctant in interrupting his Manmer admiring the hidden valley that his tribe of the Urshilaku stumbled upon a few decades back, when he was a young elf. His family and fellow Ashlanders spilt from the original, mother tribe to take their chances elsewhere as life in Morrowind was becoming too hostile and unliveable from the volcanic eruptions and constant Argonian raids. They highly praised and annually prepared a feast to show their gratitude to the True Tribunal of Azura, Mephala and Boethiah for helping them come across this untouched haven.

They passed through the frosty meadow then climbed up a steep hillside, made more difficult by the slippery frost coating the ground. Once they reached the top, having slide down a couple of times before Zairan put his Manmer in front, they were standing in the familiar powdery grey ash frosting the top of the hill. The Ashlander was met by the homely sight of the ashen landscape, dominating most of the valley. 

In the distance, the huntsman spots the dozen yurts and plumes of smoke from the camp fires. His eye catches the glint of the freshwater stream running through the settlement of his people, the Urshilaku. There were few other tribespeople, split from their own mother tribes, who tagged along with the also split, larger group of Ashlanders.   
Zairan recalls how his tribe attempted life in Vvanderfell, only to be attacked by mad-induced creatures infected by the Blight; gods how they almost starved from the lack of food, where some of the crops and meat of animals were tainted by the poisonous ash. They depended on the last window of hope when they encountered some "civilised" Dunmer, not knowing that the travelling group of famished Dunmer were savage Ashlanders, who advised them to come along with them to board a ship heading towards Solstheim. So, the Ashlanders scoured the Isle until they stumbled on the cave entrance to the Hidden Valley. Zairan was a young elf of 15 seasons when they settled in and lived here for over three decades.

 

The sun is gradually dipping down behind the rim of the Hidden Valley. The day has been prosperous for the vegetation and clothes hung out to dry to get some heat from the great star above Nirn. 

At the end of the unkept row of yurts, facing south-east, Favova stepped out of her personal and small yurt stretching out her long arms to enjoy the generous but limited heat. Her long, slate grey arms were adorned in bangles of bent copper and silver, catching the sunlight as they glinted brightly. The beautifully weathered Dunmer wore sleeveless robes of creamy beige with faded coral thread mimicking upside-down triangles, aligned in a horizontal design on her long skirts; they were fastened by a brown leather belt, showing off her slim waist. A copper circlet embellished with cuts of precious onyx adorn her head of sleek, ivory white hair tamed in a loose pleat. 

She serves her purpose as the Urshilaku's Wisewoman, given to her since the tribe of fellow Ashlanders were in need of one. Favova and her sister, alchemist and wife to the Ashkhan Breynis, left their own tribe of the Zainub to move on from the wretched life conditions they were forced to live in. Favova was chosen and trained under the Zainub's Wisewoman, making the woman more eligible to take on the duty of morally guiding her tribespeople. 

She has served her role well.

The Dunmer moved towards her line, strung up between a burnt tree and the wooden pole of her yurt, decked with various cuts of dried and seasoned venison and ash hopper meat. She unclipped each piece, placing the cuts in a woven basket to have as rations when future ash storms hit her and her tribe. It was not until she halted in her task something flashed across the ash plains in front of her. Critical, slanted ruby eyes turned to see two humanoid figures, approaching the settlement of the Urshilaku. She raised her hand above her eyes, shielding off the worst of the sun, to identify the growing figures. 

Favova's eyes widened, recognising the war-painted, chitin armoured figure as her nephew, Zairan; especially with his vibrant orange crest of hair, ruffled slightly by the breeze. However, she could not identify the figure wearing hooded robes of lilac. 

She felt a great tug of worry. The Wisewoman placed her basket behind the flap of her yurt, walking towards the huntsman and the unfamiliar, petite person.

Zairan stood still, spotting a member of his tribe approaching him and his slave. He recognised the determined gait and slight swaying of arms as his aunt. B'vek! He remembered that he was supposed to get some alchemy ingredients for her! The Ashlander knew that he will get a clout to his head for prolonging his return. The huntsman straightens himself from his moment of panic, looking sideways at his confused and worried Manmer. He then continues, tugging on his slave's binds to follow.

Marelle's apprehension has tenfold once she caught sight of a female Dunmer, striding towards them in a brisk pace. It was made worse when her captor stood frigid before her, fear flashing in his intimidating features. She showed reluctance in following him, to meet another Ashlander who clearly intimidates the Dunmer, only to obey after he gave her a heated look of warning. The Breton bowed her head, trailing behind her master. The scholar peeked underneath the furred brim of her mage's hood, seeing the tall and lithe Dunmer woman with a stoic, weathered grey face as she shot a questioning glare between Marelle's captor and herself. 

To any god that's merciful, please take me now, was the thought shared between Zairan and Marelle as the Wisewoman approaches.

 

"ZAIRAN! Ku'ay gher Oblivion hari ohn maz!"*

Keep your head down. Whatever you do, keep your head down. 

Marelle sternly advised herself, staring at the feet of her captor and the hide booted feet of the female Dunmer. The rasping, deep voice sliced through the thicket of silence overhanging the uncomfortable duo. The Breton knew it was the Dunmer woman's, talking to her captor in a stern, harsh tone; despite not understanding a single word of Dunmeri, the scholar was bewildered that the Dunmer was chastising her fellow Ashlander. Must be his mother or elder sister.

The Breton was startled by the sharp sound of the Dunmer cracking the back of her hand across Marelle's captor's face. It was a mistake to look up as more and more Ashlanders were coming over, attracted to the commotion of the hysterical Wisewoman's fiery outlasting at the huntsman. 

The scholar snapped her head down, displaying fearful submission, as her hands twisted and rung the front of her dusty robes, the knuckles turning whiter than before. 

This was terrible. 

Although she did expected to gain masses of attention from her captor's people but this was a hundred times worse than what she envisioned her introduction to the tribe. Although the irate Ashlander woman was still busy reprimanding the Breton's master, she just loathed the waiting and knowing she will be placed under that woman's scornful gaze. 

Marelle's ear twitched, picking up the change of the Dunmer's tone. She was now questioning about the petite female, solemnly standing a little behind the huntsman. Oh gods. 

Long, bony and cool gloved fingers grasped hold of Marelle's jaw, abruptly tilting her face up to the scrutinising blood eyes of the shock haired Dunmer. 

The Breton held her breath. Her heart races. She feels the need to spill out her tears from the constricting fear seizing her soul, threatening to squeeze the life out of the terrified young scholar. 

The Dunmer turned her face, studying the foreign fair complexion and youthful age of the human, unintentionally forcing the petrified woman to see the many hatchet faces of anticipating Ashlanders.

There were mer and womer alike, some wearing casual Dunmer clothing whereas others were suited up in chitin armour. Most of them wore grey masks of fascination, interest and excitement at the prospect of a new servant to provide convenience to the community. Whereas some bore looks of distrust, scepticism and measured hatred towards the filthy Outlander who could backstab them in retaliation of not accepting its place; it'll bring trouble to the well-established tribe, that's for sure.

The knot of dread tightens ever more within Marelle's stomach, bile threatening to erupt and shoot out of her mouth but the braving Breton kept swallowing the bitter acid back, not wishing to provoke their anger; especially of the highly fearsome Dunmer currently studying her. 

At last, her tensed jaw was released from the Dunmer's steel claw. However, Marelle was still made to look in the womer's somber face. The scholar was captured by the burning red orbs, pinning the young woman in place.

"What are you called?" The Dunmer plainly inquired her. It took a few moments for Marelle to reel back from her shock of the Dunmer speaking Common to her, along with her stubbornness, to surrender her name. 

The fearsome Dunmer nodded her approval, expression impassive, as she turns to the Breton's captor and the few other Dunmer that stepped forward. 

The brave mers that approached were intriguing out of the nondescript Elven audience. 

There were three males, two obviously younger than the seasoned Dunmer who wore a fur rope with chitin shoulder guards. He must be the tribe's leader, if his crown of moulded copper was anything to go by, crafted in a braid style with visible holes where porcelain feathers of some bird species were stuck in. His weathered face held interest but retained a quality of solemness in this unexpected turn of affairs. 

The two other males, despite the characteristic web-linings below their eyes, were both clearly young elves as well. One was tall and lanky, sharing the same body structure as Zairan, draped in blue mage robes with a golden Tribunal hand stitched on the front of his chest. His long, umber hair is held back by a twisted knot, holding the top layer while the rest flows freely down his back. 

The other male was the complete opposite. He was a broad shouldered mer with thick cords of muscle bulging under his dark grey flesh, donned in a sleeveless, copper hauberk. Only the top layer of the Dunmer's tawny hair was spared from being shaved, scraped and held by a stout ponytail at the back of his blocky skull. His face is decorated in fingerprints of white paint, doting along the top of his prominent brow, strengthening the emphasis of his near permanent scowl his face is set in. 

There was another Dunmer approaching; one that was a beryl blue female. She wore similar robes to the lanky, young male but had the restoration symbol of a golden, flaming phoenix stitched into the powder blue triangle of the front of her attire. A thick, platinum blonde tendril hovers over a wine-red eye, her face matured more gracefully than that of the hysteric Dunmer woman before. She approached then stood by the side of the elder, possible tribe chief, speaking to him in a soft, rasping tone - most likely questioning about the Breton. 

The ivory haired Dunmer female turns to the four tribespeople, beckoning Marelle's captor to her side, possibly explaining the situation of the appearance of the Manmer and Zairan's intention of keeping her. 

The young scholar peeped another glance to the other Ashlanders, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes met those of a Redguard woman. 

The other servant to the Ashlanders appeared to have went to Oblivion and back. Her face is hallow and drawn, her dreary dark eyes were red and sunken deep in their sockets. She wore filthy rags that barely give her protection from the climates of the land; they were as worn down and pitifully thin as the fellow human. Her brown skin was caked with patches of dried dirt and grey ash, almost successful in hiding the healing bruises and whip scars. 

The Redguard was a frightening representation of the Ashlanders' treatment towards their slaves.

The petrified Breton continued to stare at her sister slave, even as she was being led away, watching as she looks to the young scholar with sympathy shimmering briefly in her solemn gaze. 

Well, at least Marelle will not be alone in her enslavement.

 

The two Dunmers and the Manmer made their way towards the personal yurt of the Wisewoman. Zairan took a moment to knock the worst of the ash off his feet against a long-dead tree stump before he entered the yurt, closing it securely shut behind him, his aunt and slave. 

The interior of the yurt was decked with hanging white animal skins from the bears and wolfs up north. There were a few lit lanterns strung above their heads, of Imperial design, from what they salvaged from abandoned ore mines during their explorations around Solstheim. A bed crafted out of dried-burnt wood was situated in the far left corner of the spacious yurt, topped with plenty of furs and straw to keep one warm and comfy during the isle's bitter nights. Despite the undertone of sulphur tinting the air, there was a unassuming herbal incense that was easy and pleasant to one's nose.

Favova removed her wolf leather gloves, placing them on the corner of a rounded side table with assortments of alchemy ingredients. The Dunmer then retrieved a fur-cushioned stool to place in the middle of the room. She then beckoned the Manmer over, helping her up to stand on the stool before she began to check over the well-being and abilities of the new slave. The Wisewoman sensed the expertise the little human has on magicka; using a soft, marked strip of leather Favova measures the Manmer's wrists for her to craft the appropriate slave cuffs to restrain her nephew's pet. 

Once she was done and took note of the size and strength, the ivory-haired womer approached the impatient, foot-tapping huntsman waiting next to her arcane enchanter. 

"I'll need you to wait outside." Favova says to him, already expecting the slight flare of defiance in his intense stare, before he nodded in respect to her wish then left through the dusty, doe-skin of the yurt's flap.

The Wisewoman sighs, reproaching the anxious slave still dutifully standing on the stool. Favova helps her down from the furniture, cautious in not showing any abrupt movements or expressions that may pose the least bit of aggression to the frightened rabbit of a person. She steers then calmly gets the girl to sit down at the foot of her bed, untying her bounds. The girl rubs at the ache of her wrists, the skin rubbed raw pink by the Netch leather, sighing a "thank you" to the Dunmer's act of kindness. 

Favova drags over another burnt-wood chair, crafted in that braided and otherworldly Dunmeri style, sits down in a slouched but alert manner before the Manmer. 

"I will need to question you..." The Dunmer plainly states, the girl staring back wide-eyed but nods her consent. 

"Has Zairan, how do you say, touched you in a sexual manner?" She asks.

For a while the Manmer is silent, her fidgeting of fisting her robes halted with her head hanging heavy in shame, before she at last looks up under the furred brim of her mage hood to the cynical womer. 

"...Y-yes..." The Manmer whispers, tears straining her voice to a quivering whine, as if she were coming clean with a crime she would be punished greatly for. Favova studies the Manmer, knowing from her tensed body language, Zairan must have violated her. Again, the Dunmer silently approved of the Outlander's answer before Favova instructed her to undress. Although she hesitated, the Manmer complied to the Wisewoman's wish. 

"You are fortunate in having Zairan as your Master," The Dunmer began after she inspected the healed genitalia of Marelle's, noting the healed useless flesh of her hymen. She mentally notes down on more of the girl's good physical health, her mental health being the only thing that's in a fragile state from shock and trauma. 

"I am not saying this because he is my blood, but he really is more merciful and patient than most of us. You have seen the state of the other human." She reminds the girl. "The dark human, her name is Niyya. She was captured by Arite, our blacksmith, when she was running away from something just outside of our hidden entrance to the Valley. Although he is fair to fellow Ashlanders, the mer is overzealous in punishing Niyya for the smallest of things. He even lends her out to anyone who are interested, mainly the hunters. Believe me, it's better to serve under a single mer who is not sadistic than being whipped daily and having to crawl back home after a session with virile mers." Favova states to the Manmer, after she studied a minor fresh cut on her calf, looking up into the astounded girl's face with compassion lighting her grey, sullen face. 

The Wisewoman stands up from her chair, moving over to her crafting desk where she starts to work on the slave bracers, using Netch leather for this occasion. After she finishes hardening and readjusting the material, the Dunmer shifts over to her miniature board of a homemade arcane enchanter. She retrieves a lesser soul gem from a hanging basket to extract the glowing, miniature balled soul from within the crystal. Favova then selected a tracking enchantment from the encoded knowledge and memory of the enchanter, before she channeled the focused stream of magicka onto the bracers that now faintly glow a crimson red from the enchantment's energy. 

She then approached the side of the now dressed Manmer, presenting the girl with her badge of slavery. Favova waits patiently but expectantly, allowing Marelle to have the control of putting the bracers on. Eventually after a time, the reluctant Manmer relents placing them on allowing the Dunmer to tighten and lock the bracers with an old but useful seal spell. 

The deed was officially done. Marelle, the Outlander, has been formally inducted into the servitude for the Ashlanders.

 

The Ashlander scuffs his right foot through the ash, the grey powder falls softly from the ochre tip of his chitin boot. Although he is known for his saint-like patience, when hunting, his short-fuse of a temper rouses strong in social situations. He still feels frustration at his aunt for making him wait outside, leaving his slave alone with her. It was expected of Zairan to be very curious of the preparations and procedures the Wisewoman is committing to his Manmer; he hopes it isn't too degrading for her.

His ear twitches again, hearing approaching footsteps nearly muffled by ash, the huntsman turns to see a Dunmer suited up in Chitin armour much like his own his helmet absent from his head, cradled in the nook of his arm. He was another huntsman of their tribe, Niden. Zairan straightens his posture, his gaze solemnly stares at the approaching fellow hunter. What does he want?

"A great catch you brought back Zairan," Niden began, flashing the redhead a small grin as he continues with his praise. "I never thought we'd get another slave; a Manmeri n'wah especially." 

Zairan's stare hardens ever more so, suspicious of his kinsman's intentions of coming to him than just praising the the huntsman.

"Niden. Why exactly have you approached me?" He inquires, deadpan and serious. His tone has darkened, akin to the warning growl of a ash-hopper readying it's attack. 

Niden was taken back by Zairan's accusing tone, however he sighs glad that he does not have to dance around the topic.

"I was wondering if the others and I could borrow her, you know, once you've got her tamed and settled in her place. 'Cause Arite's n'wah is getting pretty boring and, well, 'used' so much your fellow huntsmen hope we could use your slave. Of course, whenever you think is an agreeable time." The rest of Niden's words fall away from Zairan's ears. The two stood there for long, agonising moments. Niden shifted nervously, realising he said something wrong; he is not quite sure how angered Zairan is. The huntsman soon found out as a large hand wrapped tightly around his slender neck, gasping in alarm then emitting a choked shriek as his ebony black ponytail was painfully pulled down. Niden snaps his eyes open to meet Zairan's wrathful glare, his hot coal eyes burn straight into the other Dunmer's very soul. It was a glare full of great hatred that would make Boethiah feel challenged.

"Don't you ever dare ask me for my slave." Zairan states venomously, his forehead pressing hard into the other mer's, tightening his death-grip on the wheezing huntsman's neck in warning. "Deliver the news to the rest of the tribe. Marelle the Manmer serves me and me alone." With that the fiery mer pushes the taller huntsman away. He stares Niden down as the other mer hurriedly makes his way back to the communal yurt for the hunters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "ZAIRAN! Where in Oblivion have you been?!"   
> I made up some Dunmer words since I couldn't find any, especially for Oblivion. ^^;


End file.
